


haven

by sweetgoodgraciousangel



Series: Month of May Prompts 2019 [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: poetry: well my bird got killed bc i was too busy writing to notice, time to burn my entire library down! :), yeah no poetry isnt okay someone help him sfhnidfs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetgoodgraciousangel/pseuds/sweetgoodgraciousangel
Summary: The library Poetry built, all the books he wrote, were his haven and safe place. Not anymore.





	haven

For as long as Poetry could remember, even back when he was just a child first learning to read, he’s taken immense comfort in the art of words. From simple childrens books, to thick hardback novels when he was old enough to comprehend them, it was safe to say by the age of twenty years old Poetry decided he couldn’t live without any form of reading or writing. His mother had the same kind of passion (hence his name) and for her sake - and his own interest - Poetry began writing just as soon as he learned to hold a pencil. 

 

It didn’t matter to him what he was writing, as long as he had a pencil or pen in his hand and words to sprawl out onto pages. 

 

Of course, that was many years ago. He’d made a career out of this, and he couldn’t be more thankful for it. Now he sat inside of a rather large building, surrounded by books of many genres and sizes, all made by his hand and mind. It’s all that Poetry craved to do. Writing until his fingers cramped, begging for a break. When he did take breaks, he would sit back in his seat and ruffle his raven Poesy’s feathers affectionately. She was a loyal friend, keeping him company and helping him with errands when the time called for it. She would also alert him when people came in. Poetry’s library was open to the public, in a way of sorts, but he doesn’t allow people to leave with the books. He didn’t want to risk losing any of his precious works. There was only one copy of each, after all, so if one was lost, it was lost forever. 

 

The library was his safe space, his place to rule, his very own personal haven. Everything he needed was inside of here, and that was enough.

 

It was tainted now.

 

Poesy was dead. Someone killed her. Someone smashed her tiny little body under a rock and watched her splatter into pieces by his doorstep. Someone purposefully killed precious Poesy in front of his goddamn  _ haven _ of all places, with no explanation whatsoever. The scream that was ripped from his throat didn’t register in him, not until it caught up to his ears and he fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face as his hands curled tightly into his hair.

 

Why, why, why? Why did this happen? What did he do wrong? What monster would do such a thing to such an innocent creature? Poesy was such a good bird, she didn’t ever do anything wrong, and how did it even happen without Poetry noticing? He’d sent her out earlier to deliver a letter for him, and the building she needed to go to was only a little ways away. When she wasn’t back in ten minutes tops, that anxiety settled into his chest.

 

Poetry could have delivered the message himself, but he didn’t because of his stupid obsession with his writing, and she suffered for it. 

 

It took him only a night to decide what needed to happen. Those detectives were here, trying to get him motivated to do something to fight back against the person who did this, but he didn’t have it in him anymore. He was happy to have helped them with what he could earlier for their case, but not any longer. He was  _ useless _ . He hurt his one and only closest friend by being the selfish word-obsessed bastard he was, and he had to repent. He had to sacrifice the one thing important to him, so in the afterlife Poesy would know he had great remorse.

 

While the two detectives were still asleep in his apartment space above the library itself, Poetry pushed his books off of the shelves and onto the floor. A large pile soon began to form.

 

He poured the gasoline onto them and tossed the can aside.

 

He felt his lower lip quiver and his shoulders shake. He had to do this. No matter how important each of these books were, no matter how happy and safe he felt within this library, this was the only solution to what had happened. He would never let his passion ever again stop someone close to him from getting hurt or killed. 

 

He still sobbed though.

 

Just as he was about to strike the match gripped tightly in his fingers, a voice called out to him.

**Author's Note:**

> poetry no thats not good :(


End file.
